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Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: Irene

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

irenic. adjective. Promoting peace or conciliation.

Sometimes, it’s the etymology of a word that sparks an idea for a story; other times, it’s the picture that accompanies the definition.

From Greek eirene (peace). Eirene/Irene was the Greek personification of peace.

*****

Irene

Irene wasn’t always a peacekeeper. It wasn’t until she had her horde of children that she realized she had to learn to mediate or fall to pieces.

“Horde” seemed a bit harsh of a word, she thought, especially on the good days, when the hours sailed by smooth and they all said “please” and “thank you” and “can I have a turn when you’re done?”

But, today – all week, really – had not been smooth. Irene walked circles around the house, clearing up misunderstandings, working negotiations, and ceasing altercations in progress.

At six years old, Rosie was the oldest. But, today she regressed to a three year old. After breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Rose folded fast into a lump onto the floor. Each time, she refused to speak.

“Your words, Rosie,” Irene said, exasperated. “You’ve got to learn to speak up for yourself. I can’t help you unless I know what you need.”

Turns out, it was something about the way Margaret looked at her.

Michael and Michelle had no problem using their words. All day, they fought over who got more of anything and everything: oatmeal, crayons, and space on the couch. Irene did her best to ensure absolute equality between the two of them. She packed a measuring tape in the pocket of her khakis, along with a pad of paper and a pen, and measured and marked down exact numbers and inches.

Little George turned ugly when Irene least expected him to, so she kept a close eye on him. He’d go about playing in peace until Margaret walked by. Then, he’d dive at her with both arms, grab whatever toy she held, and break out in a serious tug of war.

“Little George!” Irene shoved her arm in the middle of a fight over a red-headed doll. “You don’t even like Strawberry Shortcake!” He let go of the doll long enough for Margaret to scurry down the hall.

Little George cried.

“Honey.” Irene put her arm around him. “Why would you want something you don’t even like?”

“Because, she has one and I don’t.”

That night, when Irene sat down to watch TV, the news flashed a photo of a UN soldier – his face haggard, his eyes flat, his shoulders slumped. Irene knew that look.

“I quit,” she told her husband when he finally made it home from work.

“Quit what?”

She was washing her face. She turned to him, her face covered with foam.

“This whole mommy business. I quit.”

He laughed. She didn’t.

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First Lines Propel the Story AND the Writer

“A good first line doesn’t invite the reader to read; it invites the writer to write.” — Antonya Nelson.

Antonya Nelson

In the September 2010 issue of The Writer magazine, Sarah Anne Johnson interviews Antonya Nelson about the art of writing fiction–short stories as well as novels. I love the interview with the insights offered by Nelson and the honesty in her answers. “I am plot-impaired…” she says when discussing her preference of short stories over novel writing. A response like that from a great author helps me accept my own flaws as a writer without giving up on the craft.

The whole interview offers much for me, a writer on the rise. But, Nelson’s answer, as quoted above, to a question about good openings in fiction impressed me the most. Often we hear that the first chapter, first paragraph, or first line of a story must capture the reader right away and drive the reader to turn the page. Nelson puts the focus of the first line back onto the writer when she suggests that a great opening gets the writer moving.

Many times when I sit down to write, a whole story unfolds based on one line that repeats itself in my mind until I concede to write it down. In one of my Wednesday’s Word flash pieces, Camaraderie, Whether You Want It or Not, it wasn’t the word of the day that sparked the story; it was the opening passage: I had only been gone for three weeks.

As Margaret Atwood said, “A word after a word after a word is power.” A great first line can inspire a second line and then a whole story.

When I took a class with Ariel Gore, one of the exercises she gave us, as a warm up to a weekly writing assignment, was to pull out our favorite book, choose a chapter, and use the first line from that chapter as the beginning of our quick write. My response to the exercise was based on the first line from a chapter in Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone:

In the wake of my self-disclosure about Ma and Jack — during the year or so that followed my discovery — Dr. Shaw and I turned over and studied who my mother really had been: a fragile woman, a victim in many ways — of her mother, her husband.

From that first line, I wrote my opening:

Dr. Shaw invited me to take a look at my mother, if only to take the heat off of me for a while.

The short piece that followed was later published in the anthology of quick writes that culminated from that class, On the Fly: Stories in Eight Minutes or Less.

The same experience happened in writing the first draft of my novel. The opening line came to me, and it was all I needed for the story to unfold.

What are some first lines that propelled you into a new story?

*****

Johnson, Sarah Anne. “A Gift for the Short Form” The Writer. September 2010: 17-20. Print.



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Wed’s Word and Flash Fiction: The Creeping Vine

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

esker. noun. A long, narrow ridge of gravel and sand deposited by a stream flowing in or under a retreating glacier.

The visual I needed appeared in the quote that followed the definition:

‘My Grade 11 geography teacher likened an esker to the mess left by a drunk simultaneously walking backward and throwing up.’ — John Barber.

Now there’s a powerful image.

Following the image, I brainstormed this morning and these words came to mind: refuse, scars, and collateral damage.

~

The Creeping Vine

Franny pulled the hospital sheet back and looked down at her arm. The wound had soaked through the bandage and formed an elongated letter S. She would have to call the nurse.

Her mother slept in the chair next to the window with her feet propped up on the bed. Franny twisted her head around to see the clock that hung on the wall behind her, but she couldn’t decipher the difference between the big hand and the little hand. Maybe it was the medication they’d given her last night.

She could turn on the TV, she thought, but decided against it. She didn’t want to wake her mother.

She wasn’t ready for the questions.

Always, her mother bombarded her with questions as soon as she saw Franny was awake and alert. Each time, Franny did her best to respond, but her answers were never quite good enough.

“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know why I did it.”
“I only meant to take one or two of your pills. I guess I lost count.”

Her mother needed Franny to explain, she always said, but even Franny didn’t understand. Her depression came on slowly and then pulled her down hard, like the creeping vine that snuck in under the neighbor’s fence last summer and took hold of the rose bush she’d helped her mother plant. The vine look harmless at first and stayed close to the ground. Then, one day Franny found her mother panicked over the bush.

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